


Unknown Spirit

by IridulcentDays (BiverbalBuncombe)



Series: Halloween Stories [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Action/Adventure, America in danger, America is always in danger, American Gothic Elements, Established Relationship, Halloween, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New England, Protective! Russia, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-27 23:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8421379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiverbalBuncombe/pseuds/IridulcentDays
Summary: As Halloween draws close, the veil between the living and the unknown thins. Something threads between these two worlds, its eyes set on America, intent on luring him to the woods. Russia will be damned if anything happens to him.





	1. Into the Darkness

**“The night, though clear, shall frown,**

**And the stars shall not look down**

**From their high thrones in the Heaven**

**With light like hope to mortals given,**

**But their red orbs, without beam,**

**To thy weariness shall seem**

**As a burning and a fever**

**Which would cling to thee for ever.”**

_Spirits of the Dead,_ -Edgar Allan Poe

 

Russia hates October. It’s not that he hates autumn, because the shifting maelstrom of weather, the sea of fiery leaves in the forests, and the bounty of the harvest leads it to being one of his favorite seasons. What Russia hates is the opening of the veil as Halloween draws near, and the danger that the man he loves is in.

He hadn’t even known it was an issue until he had started dating America, fully and breathtakingly out of the shadows they had hid their bruising kisses and soft touches in. Maybe that was why when England sat him down during a sweltering July evening he had taken everything without question. Because how could something this good come without a bitter price? England had invited him and they had drinks on the patio as the summer day died in a flash of orange. Cicadas hummed softly as he broke the stiff silence between the two. It should have been a sign. They usually got on well, especially after the first drink.

“So you’re dating Alfred now? Truly?”

“Yes,” Russia had replied, waiting to see how he could kill off the inevitable ‘parental dating interrogation’, but England sighed and settled back into the chair.

“Good. Well, not good, but at least you know magic.”

That hadn’t been where he thought the conversation had been going. “Sorry?”

England tapped the lip of the tumbler, looking out at the garden. “There’s something you should know, and I think since you spend a lot of time with Alfred you have the right.” Russia had stayed silent and waited for the other man to finish gathering his thoughts. “Alfred must be kept under watch when the veil lifts during Halloween.”

“Why is that?”

“There’s something about him. I don’t know what it is, since it doesn’t seem to affect Matthew the same way, but dark things come after him every Halloween. They’ve always have, ever since I have known the lad.” England had leaned over the small table between him, green eyes serious like a jade blade. “You know what I’m talking about, right? With the veil?”

“Yes,” Russia had said and sipped at his drink slowly. He had looked away from England and to the dusk gray garden. He knew magic well enough, even if he didn’t outwardly dabble in it like England or Romania or even Norway to a certain extent. No, he didn’t let spells fly off his tongue, but he could feel the old bonds itch at his skin as he retold folk stories or indulged himself in old superstitions. He had a healthy respect for it.

England had tapped at his glass in thought. “Spirits and man mingles when the veil lifts for a night, and there is something that seeps out and seeks him. One of the first years, when he was still only a small colony, he went missing from his bed. I found him in a fairy circle, just before midnight, unconscious. His feet were bloody.” He had paused to take another sip, which became three more, and put the tumbler down with a clatter. “The year after that I had decided to stay home with him, and found something lurking outside, trying to get in. There were scratch marks all along the frames of the doors and windows. I’m not sure what would have happened if I hadn’t been there and warded the entrances as a precaution. After that I gave him strict orders not to leave the house during Halloween, warded his home, and tasked one of the local parishioners to keep an eye on him. That worked awhile when I couldn’t be there. That is, until his revolution.”

Russia had wisely stayed silent. It was known to all that it was still bad blood between the two Nations, even if their people had moved on.

England had toyed with the glass in his hand, watching the last of the ice slide around. “I asked France and Prussia to keep their eyes on him,” he admitted.

That had gotten Russia’s attention more than anything. “You asked them to protect him? Even during a war?”

“I didn’t want him dead!” England had replied bitterly and sighed, “I wrote a letter to them. I don’t think they took me seriously, because I later found out they hadn’t kept their eyes on him and it was only because Prussia went to awaken him because he couldn’t find a map, only to find his bed empty. France found him a mile away, head gashed and lying prostrate in the middle of a crossroads.” He gave a wry smile. “I think they believed me after that.”

“He had no memory of what happened?”

“He never remembers.” England had paused to go inside to get more drinks which left Russia to contemplate what he was learning, alone in the quickly ripening night. He took a mint leaf from his drink when England finally came back, crushing it between his forefinger and thumb and released its spicy fragrance into the humid air. “I did the same thing for a while, even after the war where we were bitter and unfriendly. France would stay with him some years, others Prussia, or even some other proxy. Canada found out eventually from France and started staying with America as well. There have been some close calls mind you.” England paused to take another sip. “There was the one time he was found unconscious and lying prone on top of a tomb, near the edge of the woods. Another where Canada had been staying with him overnight and America kept asking him why he kept whispering his name.”

“Why do you not just tell him what is happening? He cannot protect himself?” Russia had asked.

“I’ve tried. The boy doesn’t believe in anything paranormal or of the ilk. You know how science based he is. If you cannot repeat it in a scientific study, it doesn’t exist.”

“He’s still scared by ghosts.”

“The Hollywood version of them that’s built up by his imagination. He doesn’t actually believe in them. His people have tapped into something, a nerve of the land, or a simple truth. There is something dark lurking in their woods and it has its eyes set on our Alfred.” England had fallen silent after that, looking up as the slow unveiling of stars. “And it’s getting worse,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off of the heavens.

“Worse?”

England had turned back to him. “The past few decades, there’s been a shift, Canada’s noticed it the most since he’s the one who usually stays with him now. I’ve warded his home when I visit nowadays. America will have a Halloween party because he loves all of the candy corn brightness of it all, but Canada will still find him looking out to the woods, or leaving the doors and windows open even if it’s frigid outside. He’ll hear his name called and try to go outside to find who ever it is. And now it’s happening even before Halloween eve.”

Russia had dropped the mint leaf back into the now empty drink, stomach twisting. “That is concerning.”

“Yes. Well, now that you’re with him I thought you should know. I don’t know what’ll happen if he stays alone on Halloween, but it cannot be good. If you stay with him keep your wits about you. The weakened veil lets a lot of dark things walk the earth again.”

Russia had thanked him and promptly spent that Halloween keeping America in his sight. England had been right. Days prior, when the veil between the spirit world and Earth had weakened, but had not fully lifted, America dragged him to the park to take walks in the woods or would hear his name called and go outside in the dark to find who it was. It was concerning, to say the least.

Now Halloween was coming up again and Russia was planning on staying a full week with America. He was picked up at Logan airport with a hug and a long kiss that made his ears and toes warm and America picked up his luggage with a brilliant smile.

“I can’t wait for this week, you have no idea how excited I am,” America laughed and put Russia’s luggage into the backseat of America’s forest green truck.

“I missed you as well,” Russia admitted and smiled when America beamed, turning on the car fluidly and fiddled with the radio.

“Well, let’s get going, yeah? It’ll take about three hours to get there.”

“Three? I thought we we’re staying at your home in Lexington.” Russia liked that house. There weren’t miles of dark forest and there were plenty of homes with grinning jack-o-lanterns lining the streets that children walked through.

“I’m remodeling it. Pipe burst last winter and ruined the kitchen. We’re headed up to my place in New Hampshire. You’re gonna love it. Intimate. It’s just like a Stephen King novel. Perfect for Halloween.”

Russia stared at him for a moment before leaning against the passenger seat. “Wonderful.” He eyed America carefully. “Has England visited there before?”

“What? Yeah.” America turned briefly to eye Russia before turning back to the highway. “Long time ago, back when I was still a kid. But I mean, this place is old. I’ve owned it since 1801. It was built in 1743 and it’s got this amazing view of the White Mountains. Maybe we should go do the Notch Train ride in North Conway. Leaves are all turning now, so it’s nice to see.” He paused and chewed on his bottom lip. “That’s not a problem is it? Were you planning on doing stuff in Boston?”

“No, it is fine, Alfred,” Russia said, and how could he be nervous when America’s face lit up so brilliantly and he gave him that smile. “I was just curious. Arthur and I had been speaking about your homes.”

“Oh god, is he giving me shit over my houses again? It’s a big fucking country, man, I’ve got a lot of them. It’s not like I built palaces like some of you guys.”

Russia chuckled, a low rumble of sound that led America to grin again. “No, it was nothing like that.”

“Well, alright.”

“And if we are talking about size–”

“–I’m gonna stop ya right there.” America said and turned the radio on. Loudly.

“Because I’m bigger you know,” Russia said wickedly and watched as America’s ears reddened and the blush traveled down his neck.

“It’s not a contest, you asshole,” he muttered.

“Said by someone smaller. It is alright.” He pat America’s arm and chuckled at the vicious glare he received.

“Oh, you bastard.” America huffed and Russia watched in amusement as he gripped the leather of the steering wheel tightly. “Just you wait until tonight.”

“Is that a promise?” Russia asked, leaning against the door as he settled in for the long drive.

“You better believe it, babe.”

****

***

The drive to New Hampshire was long, and the trees bled into each other in autumnal ink. Russia slept through most of it, as he burned off jet lag. When he awoke again dusk was threading yellow ribbons of clouds through a slate blue sky, stripping away the colors of the world as gray night settled in. America’s face was illuminated green from the light of the dashboard, eyes trained steadily ahead on the darkening road and humming a half pieced tune as a baseball game droned on in static.

“Are we almost there?” Russia asked, sighing away the weight of sleep from his chest. He blinked tiredly and pulled away from the cold glass of the door.

“Yeah actually. About five minutes. I’ve got dinner in the back in the cooler. My neighbor Kelly, you met her about two years ago? She has a kid now. Anyway, she makes me this awesome chicken potpie and I’ve got one frozen back there. We’ll pop it in the oven as soon as we get there.”

Russia’s stomach rumbled at the thought. “That sounds good.”

“Yeah.” America lowered the volume of the radio so it was just whispers to keep silence at bay. “I, uh, thanks for coming. I love it when you come out here.”

“It is only fair since you come out for two weeks around Christmas,” Russia said, and there was a flutter of guilt that strummed behind his ribs. America didn’t know this was all for his own good, that this was more than just wanting to see him, which of course Russia did. But it had been agreed between those who knew not to tell him until they knew what it was that was trying to harm him. America tended to make poor choices if he felt threatened.

Russia snorted. America would probably grab a gun a try to face off against the dark woods if he knew.

America finally pulled off the long side roads that wound around and up the base of a mountain, driving up a steep driveway to the squat red colonial house. Two large beech trees dwarfed the house, long naked limbs sprawled out towards the moon. America parked the car and turned the car off. “Welcome home,” he said in the silence.

They got out, taking the bags and luggage from the car and walked up the flagstone path to the entrance. America pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. Russia studied the doorframe carefully. There were no scratch marks. America flicked on the lanterns and the lights inside, quickly ushering them in and out of the cold October air.

Inside the house it was surprisingly warm for old construction. An old fireplace stood grandly against the wall, it’s deep mantle sporting a few gold framed oil portraits, two pewter plates, and a vase. The house was still traditional, even with a modern cream couch, looking like when the fire was lit inside the hearth, the ghosts of the past would be found seated in the chairs around the room. America left Russia’s luggage in the entryway, taking the cooler and two other bags with him to the kitchen in a separate room.

“You didn’t remodel this house?” Russia asked, looking at the wide oak planks of the hardwood floor. Old rugs lined the entry hall and the parlor. The room was painted a soft sage green. Usually America renovated and modernized his houses, so he was always with a project on his hands. Russia always wondered if it was his way of moving on from the past.

“Oh, no. I did. I don’t really use this place too much so I just kinda let it be.” America returned from the kitchen with the two bags, “Turned the second bedroom into a master bath and extra closet space. I had to redo the clapboard and I replaced all the windows and doors to save on heating. I’m going to go put the sheets on the bed upstairs. Do you want to bring your bags up?”

“You removed all the old windows and doors?” Russia asked alarmed. He followed America upstairs to the bedroom. More modern furniture sat in there, along with an armoire and an old cedar chest painted with what looked like Swedish folk art.

“Uh, yeah,” America said as he put on the flannel sheets. He pulled the pillows from the armoire and slipped the pillowcases on. Russia pushed his luggage to the corner of the room. He helped when America pulled out a large quilt from the cedar chest, taking a deep breath of the musky scent as they laid it out over the bed. America piled on extra wool blankets. “Interested in my home renovation projects all of a sudden?”

“Something like that,” Russia said and followed America out of the bedroom.

America hummed and headed back to the kitchen and Russia pulled out his phone to quickly texted England that the wards on this house were likely gone. He pocketed it and quickly moved into the kitchen, humming when America moved away from the stove to wrap his arms around him, running fingers like water down his back and scratchy kisses to his neck. “We should wait until after dinner, you don’t want it to burn,” he muttered into America’s ear. “And you will be thoroughly distracted.”

America grinned. “It takes an hour to bake.”

“I know.”

“Hah. Alright then.” America pulled away with one last kiss and walked to the back door. “I’m going to get some firewood. Might as well warm this place up.”

“I’ll get it.”

“No way. I’ve got it. I chopped the wood last time so I just need to grab some.”

Russia watched him leave and pensively waited by the door. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms and watching the dark window. He knew America would question him if he still followed, and he didn’t want to rile him up. His phone buzzed against his leg and Russia opened it, scanning the message quickly. England wasn’t happy. He had sent a sigil that Russia should scrawl on all the windows and doors in–”

_Where am I supposed to get blood? He texted back._

_Your own? You could use urine too._

_No._

_Fine. Sharpie or pencil works in a pinch._

Russia worked his way through the drawers, searching for a pencil and quickly scribbled the sigil along the painted wood of the door and window. He stepped away when America walked back inside, a pail full of firewood on each arm. “Cold out there,” he muttered as he shut the door. He glanced at the window, an odd look on his face.

“What is it?” Russia asked.

“Nothing.” America moved into the living room and began to build the fire. Russia sat down along the couch. “So I think maybe tomorrow we should go into town and see the pumpkin festival. There’s also this Halloween party at night for Adults. Roaring 20s theme and I think they’re doing a séance too. Does that sound good? There’s some kind of beer festival on Sunday and after that's when the trick or treaters are out. None of them really make it out here, which is a bummer, but I figured we could put on a bunch of scary movies and chill. Make a ton of popcorn, eat a shit ton of Kit Kats, and yes, I got you the Swedish Fish and salted licorice you like.”

“That sounds nice.”

America leaned closer to the fire, breathing life into the flame and watched as it caught onto the kindle. He added some smaller branches and then piled on the thin strips of wood. He watched the fire for a while, light glinting off his frames, before he frowned and looked to the door. America added on another log and dusted his pants, walking to the entrance and opened the door.

“Alfred?” Russia asked, standing up from the couch as he peered into the night. 

“Sorry,” America said as he closed the door and locked it and dead bolted it. His hand stayed on the doorknob for a minute too long and he turned around, smiling brightly as his eyes stayed distant. “Thought I heard something.”

Russia stayed silent, watching the other man carefully. America moved further in to the living room and watched the fire again before laughing. “Probably raccoons. I swear it happens every year. My imagination gets the best of me. Let me go check on the pie.”

Russia watched him leave and then went to the door, carefully drawing the sigil on the top and each side of the doorframe. He moved methodically and penciled the windows of the bottom floor, leaving the windows in the living room last.

“Hey, babe?”

“Yes?”

America came back with two beers in his hand and handed one to Russia, he sat down snugly against him, curling his legs up on the couch and Russia sprawled out and hooked his arm around America’s shoulders. “Know any good ghost stories? I’d put on the TV, but I don’t have one here and I don’t feel like getting my tablet from the bag upstairs. “

“Something better. This one happened to me.”

America snorted and took a sip of his beer. “Ghosts aren’t real.” When Russia didn’t say anything he elbowed him in his ribs. “Come on.”

“You have your own ghost stories.”

“Yeah, stories.” America turned to him so he could fully look him in the eye. “As in they’re not real.”

“Some of them are.”

“No,” America frowned. “They're not. I love Halloween, but they’re just stories!”

“What about aliens?” Russia countered and poked him in the shoulder.

“Completely different. Mathematically improbable that we’re alone. Ghost stories on the other hand have been around longer than I have and we’ve never gotten scientific proof. ‘Sides, I think all we need to do is look at the witch hunts that’ve happened to see why believing in the paranormal and mystical is just dumb. It’s just a excuse to let us act on our hysteria.”

Russia put his hands up and America snorted, pushing them down with cold fingers. “Sorry,” he said. “Just a bit riled up.”

“No,” Russia said and kissed his cheek, “It is okay.”

“Okay,” America mumbled and rested his head on Russia’s shoulder. They drank and watched the fire for a while before America got up to pull out the potpie. He spooned it out into bowls and brought it back out and they ate by the fire. America dragged a blanket over their laps as they laughed about gossip about other Nations and books and movies they had recently read. America pulled out cards and they played Gin until the pails were out of wood and the fire died down.

When America put the dishes into the sink, Russia scribbled the sigil into the windowsill and walked over to the hearth and penciled it onto the mantle. All the entrances downstairs were covered. He let America pull him up from the couch and stretched, ignoring the ‘old man’ comments thrown his way and followed America up to the bedroom, turning out the lights as he went. They changed and washed up and America was passed out on the bed when Russia had finished brushing his teeth.

Ah well, so much for waiting until later tonight. There was always the morning. Russia crawled into bed after him, pulling him close and kissing the back of his neck, smiling when America sighed in his sleep. He kept his hand along America’s waist, pinning him in place with his leg, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

****

***

It was 3 am and America wasn’t there. Russia sat up in the bed, feeling the empty and cold space of the bed. He twisted and turned on the lamp on the bedside table, looking around for the other Nation.

“Alfred?” He called out, voice rough with sleep. The house stayed silent. Fear prickled down his neck. He pulled the quilt off and grabbed his cell phone, using it as a light. “Alfred? America?” He walked down the halls, looking for the other man. His stomach began to chew its way to his heart and he rushed down the stairs, feeling the cold wind stir through the house. He walked through the living room, barefoot and swung his light around. “Alfred!” He called again, louder. The wind blew in through the kitchen and he entered, shivering as the cold air wormed through his flannel bottoms and thin t-shirt. The door was open.

He entered the backyard, looking at the black grass and gray trees as the moon bore down coolly. He sighed, seeing America standing by a squat stonewall, staring at the tree line. “Alfred, come back in,” Russia called while walking through the frosted grass. America didn’t turn around. He stood as still as the rocks by his feet. “America?” he asked and shone the light onto the man.

America stood bare-chested, black sweatpants hung low on his hips. Russia walked closer, moving to the side to look into America’s glasses-less eyes. Blue eyes, nearly graphite in the lack of light, were distant and flat. “America,” Russia growled, fear worming in through his blood.

As soon as his fingers touched America’s corpse cold skin, the other man startled with a strangled breath like a drowning man while staring at Russia in shock. “Ivan?” America whispered raggedly and looked back to the woods. He tensed, as though he had seen something. Russia watched as his eyes rolled up and he fell to the ground like a puppet cut of its strings. Russia barely caught him, dropping his phone and plunging them into darkness. A twig snapped in the forest.

Russia turned America over, looking at him carefully to see that he was still breathing and that he was only unconscious. He gathered the cold man into his arms, put his cell phone into his pocket, and pulled him off the frozen ground. Russia walked him into the house and put him on the couch, pulling a blanket over him before returning to the back door and locking it tightly. Russia walked back over to the couch, watching America’s eyes flutter open as consciousness returned.

What the hell had happened?


	2. Red Velvet

Russia turned on the lamp on the table, looking into its warm amber glow before perching on the arm of the couch and watching America’s eyes flutter open, alertness burning in his gas-blue eyes. “Did I fall asleep on the couch?” he asked, voice ragged. He looked surprised and went to sit up, but Russia placed a hand along his still cold chest.

“Lay down.” He stopped for a moment, lost at what words to use. Should he tell him? He watched as America shivered and sighed in relief. He was warming back up again. He seemed to have missed getting hypothermia by the smallest sliver of chance. “You were sleepwalking,” he finally said and pulled the blanket back up to his neck.

“God damn,” America muttered into the wool as his teeth clattered like spoons. “It’s freezing in here.” He shivered again, a full body shake that made Russia go search for another blanket. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Cold does not bother me,” Russia murmured distractedly, pulling another blanket from a chest in the corner. It was a ratty red lone star quilt that looked hand stitched. He unfolded it and lay it over America, frowning down at him when he caught his hand. America blinked, eyes tracing his face, looking incredibly young without his glasses and with the red bite of cold on his cheeks. 

“I always forget that.” America smiled and tugged Russia down to the couch, humming when Russia began to protest. “Come be my personal heater, then.” He hissed when he wrapped his frozen fingers around Russia’s waist and glared at him. “You’re just as cold, you reptilian cold blooded bastard. What the hell?” It didn’t stop the younger man from sticking his toes under Russia’s thighs as he curled around him. Russia pulled him close to make sure the blankets cocooned America as he shivered.

Russia carded his fingers through America’s blond hair, looking down at him in worry. What had happened? Nothing like this had ever occurred once he had kept America under his guard and bared his teeth at the night. He had heard of America being found in strange places and near the woods, but always if he was left alone and only on Halloween night. Neither was true now. His stomach twisted with the thought and if he hadn’t turned to ask him a question, he would have missed the haunted look in America’s eyes, staring blankly out at the ash white flecked logs.

“Alfred? What is wrong?”

America blinked and turned to look up at Russia, giving him a small smile. He looked like he was about to laugh off whatever had caused the pensiveness and Russia nosed the edge of America’s jaw where soft hair turned to prickly stubble. America sighed, and pooled further against Russia’s chest. He shivered again. “Have you ever had a reoccurring dream?” he asked.

Russia looked out across the room, keeping his chin over America’s head. It’s enveloping, and he can feel America’s muscles shift under his touch. “Yes,” he said quietly.

America was quiet long enough that Russia would have thought he fell asleep if he wasn’t able to see the long shadows casted by his lashes across his cheek, a moth’s wing of movement as he blinked. “It’s this dream where I’m standing in the darkness and I can see something, just the outline of– something standing an arms length away and it stares at me, even if it doesn’t have eyes. And I can tell it wants me to come over to it, to take that last step, and… I just can’t. I’m too–“ He stopped and made a small noise in the back of his throat and shivers again. “Anyway, I dunno. It bothers me.”

Russia hummed. They sat that way until America’s teeth stopped chattering and he began to slowly close his eyes again. He uncoiled himself from America when morning light licked the room, bathing everything in a watery blue. He walked to the kitchen, keeping his eyes on America and dialed the cell phone from his pocket.

“There’s a problem,” he said quietly, gripping the wood of the doorframe so tightly it groaned. 

****

***

They both slept late into morning, when golden light traced patterns into their bare arms and birds sent silver shadows jolting around the room. America yawned, unfurling from the blankets and groaned, rubbing his back as he looked around the living room until he found Russia, sitting silently at the small table in the kitchen, eyes fixed on the mug in his broad hands.

Russia looked up when America padded into the kitchen, still bare-chested. Goosebumps trailed up his arms until he pulled the quilt from behind him and wrapped himself in the cocoon of cotton. “Morning. Sleep well?”

He watched America shuffle to the pantry to pull out instant hot cocoa mix. “It was quiet,” he said finally.

“Good, I think?” America put water into the mug and shoved it into the microwave perched on the counter, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Wait, where’re my glasses?”

Russia glared at the door, but America didn’t catch the look. Instead he was shuffling the blanket higher up on his shoulders. “I do not know,” Russia answered truthfully and turned to watch the other man mix the sugary powder into a drink. Russia himself had a cup of stale black tea he had found in the back of America’s cabinets around five. He hadn’t dared to go back to sleep.

America hummed and sat down in one of the wooden chairs, the legs groaning from age. He propped his bare feet up on the table leg. “Must be upstairs. I think I have a spare in the truck if I really need them.”

“I thought they were mostly sentimental. Is your eyesight really that bad?”

“The glasses were,” America said and took a sip at the hot cocoa. “Up until I took shrapnel in the eyes in ’43. Never really healed right. I’m nearsighted now. Can read fine but stuff in the distance is a bit fuzzy.” He put the mug down with a loud clatter and looked at the clock. “We should get going soon if we want to see the pumpkin festival. It’s almost 11.” America tilted his head, looking at Russia curiously. “You never let me sleep in this late.”

“You looked like you needed it. Besides, your snoring is cute.”

“I don’t snore!” America muttered into his mug. Russia laughed and leaned against the back of the chair, finishing off the cold dregs of his tea with a bitter swig. When Russia ginned at him, America took his mug and defiantly swung the tail of the quilt over his shoulder like a Roman senator and trailed out, nearly falling as he tripped over the cloth.

Russia glanced at his phone as it buzzed. He skimmed the message and frowned, looking up when America was tossing the blanket off of him and back onto the couch.

“America?” Russia said.

“Yeah?”

Russia stopped, wondering if he should tell him that Canada and England would be here in less than 24 hours. A cavalry to keep this precious man safe. “…We should get lunch in town,” he finished, lamely. He didn’t want to spoil this constructed image of the two of them together, alone for the weekend.

“Yeah! Sounds great. I’m gonna take a shower,” he called.

Russia listened to the footsteps up the creaking stairs and waited until the water was turned on. He stood up and left the table, walking out into the crisp air and searched the grounds.

America’s glasses were actually easily found, as the dew covered glass reflected the morning sun brightly. He dried it off with his shirt and looked around. The home sat squat on a large rolling patch of land that dipped away from the forest and to the valley below. The mountains in red glory fanned their leaves in the wind to a baby blue sky. It was breathtaking. Russia turned his back to it and studied the wall, looking for any markings where America had stood last night. There were no unusual smells: nothing coppery or sulfuric. He glanced at the still woods and at the barren pine covered ground, before turning back to the house to inspect the doors and windows. He stopped, looking up at the roof.

Shingles were torn, as though someone had stood on there, and the window to their bedroom was wide open. Russia crossed his arms, watching a penumbral figure cross the bedroom until America stepped into the light, in the middle of shutting the glass as he glanced down to Russia. “Come on back in. You’ll freeze!”

Russia nodded, fiddling with America’s frames as he trudged back in, shutting and locking the door behind him. It was good England and Canada were coming. He didn’t know what the next move should be. He needed to know all his options before he made a move. Russia moved back upstairs, scribbling the sigil on all of the windows and doorframes of the bedroom. America left the bathroom, steam trailing out behind him as Russia put the pencil away in the bedside table drawer.

“You better have not used all the hot water, Russia murmured, pulling off his shirt as America threw a clean towel at him, catching the towel wrapped around his own waist before it unfurled and dropped to the floor.

“Nah. Get your butt up here first next time if you’re so worried.”

“I wouldn’t be if you did not always take Hollywood showers, Russia muttered, pulling his shaving kit from his bag.

“I don’t take Hollywood showers!” America said, paused and frowned. “Okay, I don’t take Navy showers either.”

“So you admit to using all the hot water.”

“I thought the cold didn’t affect you Mr. ‘I can walk 20 kilometers in the snow barefoot’,” he snarked, pulling on his boxers and used the towel to dry his hair.

“It does not mean I like cold showers in the morning,” Russia grumped and walked to the bathroom.

“Hey,” America said, pulling Russia back by his waist and against his damp chest, “next time you should join me,”

“Next time you should ask.”

“Like you ever need an invitation,” America said, kissing his shoulder and releasing him. He went back to the far side of the bedroom, pulling on jeans and tugged out a blue flannel shirt. “Hurry up, we’re leaving in 45.”

Russia shut the bathroom door on him, listening to America’s muffled laugh. He pulled off the rest of his clothing and turned on shower, sighing a little as the hot water turned on. He was in and out quickly, not one to waist time and was in the midst of drying off his hair when he glanced at the fogged mirror. Condensation covered words were eked out, nearly faded away. MINE, it said. Russia stared at it and ran his hand through the message, watching the water drip down the glass.

Yes, Russia agreed grimly. He is mine. And you will have to come through me to get him.

****

***

They loaded up into the truck before noon. America drove down the mountainside slowly, admiring the gold light of the autumn afternoon paint the leaves brightly. Russia leaned against the passenger window, head resting against his folded hand as he switched from watching the foliage to watching America. Sensing Russia’s stare, America glanced at him, smiling shyly, and turned back to the road. His blue eyes crinkled with the motion and he turned on the radio, letting the volume stay low as an old rock song played.

“So, you want to just look at the festival things? There’s a train ride that goes through the mountains that we could do. Or we can go up into the mountains after lunch and go hiking a bit on the trails.”

“Let’s stay in town,” Russia said. He felt a little groggy from lack of sleep and worried that the train would lull him into slumber. The hiking idea wasn’t even toyed with. He was keeping America away from the woods at all costs.

“Okay. Well, we can drive around a little since all the pumpkins are scattered through the town. Then we can go to this really good bakery I know for lunch. Or do you want to do it the other way around?”

“Lunch first. We did not eat yet,” Russia reminded him. The stale tea had done little to stave off hunger and his stomach was growling. America laughed brightly.

“Okay. Sounds good.”

They pulled into town, and America took the parallel back roads to avoid the throng of people walking through Main Street. He parked behind a quintessential white church, it’s spire piercing the blue sky, and patted the truck before locking it when Russia exited. “This way,” he said and walked further away from all the people, up a gravel path.

Russia followed him as they walked for a minute and stopped in front of what looked to have been an old white Victorian house, converted into a legal office on one side and a bakery on the other. A maple tree in the old front yard was threadbare with hot red leaves. America pushed open the door, the clatter of the bell causing the woman behind the counter to turn with a bright smile.

“Hey Jane,” America laughed when the woman looked angry and put her hands on her hips.

The short woman smiled, angry façade dripping away instantly. “You son of a bitch. Where have you been all this year?”

“I told you I live in DC. I don’t get up here too often.”

“You should, it’s better up here. It’s hot and there are politicians. Why would you do that to yourself?” She held up a finger before America could answer and he grinned. “I know. Work is work. Who’s the handsome fellow?”

“This is my boyfriend, Ivan. He’s visiting for the week.”

Jane glanced at Russia, who smiled politely, and glanced to America as she laughed, red curly hair bouncing with the motion. “Well you weren’t kidding when you said how pretty he was,”

America’s cheeks burned red as brightly as the turned maple tree outside and Russia looked at him in amusement. “Pretty?” he asked.

“You were right about the voice,” Jane continued on, smiling wickedly at America’s blush. “Definitely red velvet.”

America waved away Russia’s question before he could ask. “Thanks, Jane.”

“No problem. That’s what you get for not visiting me for a year. Now what can I get you boys?”

They ended up ordering a bowl of mushroom soup and a bowl of pumpkin chili, a turkey cranberry and brie baguette for America and a roasted red pepper and chicken panini for Russia. They also got a red velvet cupcake to share and said goodbye to Jane and walked back to the main street, crossing over to a park with a view of the mountains. They sat on the park bench, eating silently for a moment before Russia turned to America. “Red velvet?”  
“Oh god, I knew you wouldn’t forget that,” America muttered and took a hearty bite of his sandwich, pulling away quickly so the cranberry didn’t fall on his shirt. He busied himself with cleaning the mess away from the park bench, ears turning red. “That Jane, what a lady.”

“Alfred.”

“What, I can’t brag about you? She asked what you sounded like and that’s what came to mind.”

“Oh?” Russia leans towards him, loving the ruddy color of his cheeks. “Do you like the sound of my voice?”

“Fuck.” America said, not pulling away.

“Should I keep talking?” Russia said, this time in his native tongue and into America’s ear. He pulled back, leaning against the bench and took a smug bite of his sandwich as America’s eyes stayed wide and his cheeks hot. He finished his food, licking off the remnants from his fingers and winked.

America burst into laughter; giddy and barrel deep at the same time and so uniquely America that Russia could feel his chest tighten happily. He leaned forward, kissing America on the lips and America snorted when he pulled away. “You’re something else, Braginsky, you know that?”

They shared the cupcake, with Russia teasing him over the dessert and America making thinly veiled innuendos with the cream cheese frosting. They threw away the trash when they’re done and walked through town, looking at all the multicolored displays in the windows and traversing through the stores that America pulled them into. Russia has to pull him out of a hiking store when the salesman gets them into a thirty-minute conversation about the newest tech for camping tents.

There were creative pumpkin displays, with ones set up as a pair of skiers out a ski shop near the edge of downtown and another with a group playing poker and cheating at cards. They stopped outside a woodcarving tent, watching a competition take place where an auction would happen later that evening, the funds going to a local food pantry.

Russia watched a man carve an eagle with a chainsaw and turned to comment to America how the beak looked more like an owl’s and saw that he was no longer there. Panic set in as he scanned the crowd, searching for the other man and only seeing stranger’s faces. His breath was short, and Russia pulled out his cell phone, calling him immediately. It goes to voicemail. Russia walked away from the tent, fingers gripped tightly around the phone, “Alfred!” he yelled. 

“What?”

Russia pivoted, staring at America as relief swelled and popped in his chest, replaced by hot irrational anger. “You left without telling me,” Russia growled.

America’s eyes narrowed at Russia’s tone. “Last time I checked, I don’t need you to babysit me every second. Why’re you mad?”

“You didn’t answer your phone!”

“My hands were full, Ivan,” America said and lifted his arms, showing the two cups of what looked to be coffee in his hands.

Russia stayed silent for a moment. The lighter joy of their day had been scrubbed away, and he could feel the raw fear that was lurking under his skin bubble to the surface. The fear that something bad was about to happen, that America would be taken away from him. That he could be harmed. Instead he said, “It is good to know that you care enough to tell me you’re leaving, then.”

America glared at him. “I did Ivan, don’t even fucking blame me for that.” He shoved the hot cup to Russia, brows knitted together angrily and took a sip from his coffee. “I don’t know what the fuck just got into you, but you need to chill. Right now.” America turned and walked up the street, not bothering to look and see if Russia would follow.

They walked together silently, and Russia could tell the lack of conversation was grating on America’s nerves. The pent up possibility of words bubbling on his tongue was seemingly worse than actual bitter words. Russia’s phone buzzed and he glanced at it, seeing that England and Canada are at the house. They want to know when they’ll be back. It’s starting to get dark. Russia looked at the long shadows casted by the late afternoon. The crowd had thinned as it got colder outside and people were starting to head to restaurants to drink and eat. There was a red tinge to the clouds.

“We should go home,” Russia said.

“Why? The pumpkins light up at night. That’s the best part.”

Russia looked out at the mountains. He didn’t want to be driving in the dark. He wanted them to be locked up in the house before the last rays of sunlight guttered out. “I want to go home. I didn’t sleep well,” he admitted.

America watched him, blue eyes flickering before he tossed his coffee away, annoyed.

“You know what? Fine. Let’s go.”

They walked back to the car on the other side of town, and by now cool purple shadows had twisted through the leaves and were painted along the buildings. The sky was soft orange with wisps of blue night creeping in. A crow croaked mournfully as they got into the car. America drove around the bend of the road and Russia realized that they were heading away from where they came.

“We are going the opposite way,” Russia commented.

“I have to get gas or we won’t get up the hill,” America snapped, not looking at him. They pulled up to the pump and America got out, closing the door a little too hard. Russia sighed. He needed to apologize to America. Before they got to the house. Or America might go ballistic. He texted to England that they were on their way. Maybe he could convince America that this was all a surprise party? It might placate him.

He turned to America when he finished with the gas and got into the car, but the other man ignored him, muttering that he didn’t want to talk and turned on the ignition. They drove in silence, and night veiled the world. About twenty minutes in, nearly back to the house, America finally turned to Russia, frames glinting green in the light of the dashboard. America had his lips pressed thin and his fingers clutching the wheel tight enough that it squeaked. “Man, what the fuck’s your problem today? Is it because I’m making the plans? Did I do something to piss you off?” he snapped as he turned back to the black winding roads.

“–No, it is nothing like th–”

“–Then what–FUCK!” America swore, lurching the car as Russia watched them careen past a person standing in the middle of the road. The car lost traction, spinning, and they came to a thunderous halt, glass shattering from the window like falling stars. Russia’s head hurt. He pressed his hand weakly to his temple. America’s voice was loud and incomprehensible, a nattering behind the silence and pulsing in the back of his head.

“Ivan, shit. Are you okay?” America asked finally, touching his arm as he shut off the car. His hand came away wet with blood. “Damn it!” Russia blinked, confused to why America was hurt when they had smashed into the guardrail on the passenger side of the car. 

He finally pushed away America’s questing fingers. “I’m fine,” he murmured and leaned back against the seat. The other man growled at that, and there was a grunt. Metal groaned and America opened his door.

“Stay here,” he ordered, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’m going to see if we hit that guy or not. Then I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No. I am fine. Do not overreact.”

“Yeah, Ivan? You’re speaking in Russian. You wouldn’t answer me in English. I think you have a concussion.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Russia watched him fade from sight, the moon drenched sky casting pearl light around them. Something stirred in his mind, a worry and a sickening feeling that America should **NOT** be alone. He unbuckled himself, listening to the belt slither and wind back up in silence. He listed in his seat, no longer tethered upright. He blinked and brushed way blood from his eyes. America was gone too long. He grunted and pulled himself out of the passenger seat, ignoring when glass cut into his palm. He finally stumbled onto the black asphalt, leaning against the dark car as he looked around.

America wasn’t there. There was no one there. The road was empty save a small pinprick of light in the distance. Russia stumbled to it, calling out for America until he stopped at the source of light and picked it up. It was America’s phone.

America was gone.


	3. Blood and Water

The moon was high in the sky, a halo of pearly white slung wide across the world, by the time Russia limped back to the house, listing to the side, and nearly collapsed against the doorframe. He breathed heavily, trying to stunt the pain in his shoulder and head, and blinked against the light suddenly turned on bearing harshly into his eyes. The door ripped open and Russia stared for one breathtaking moment at Alfred’s concerned face, relief fluttering though his chest like sparrow wings until the illusion was shot down.

The glasses were not the right shape, his hair the color of corn silk rather than wheat. Blue eyes were color of winter shadows rather than the endless summer sky: he was staring at Canada, not America, and his heart broke.

“Russia? Christ– What happened…Arthur! Get over here!” A firm hand wrapped around his arm and he was guided into the depths of the house, dazedly realizing that there was a fire roaring in the grate. Canada maneuvered him to the couch, spreading a blanket out before Russia practically collapsed against the cushions as his knees weakened.

“What?” England called from further in, most likely the kitchen if the rattle of ceramic said anything. Canada was trying to maneuver him to lie down and Russia pushed his hand away, cupping his throbbing head in his blood lined palms. “Jesus, what happened?” England came around the corner, a sepia statue in the amber light of the lamp and firelight. “Where’s Alfred?”

Canada’s questing fingers paused and Russia stared at the floor. “I do not know,” Russia muttered between clenched teeth.

“WHAT?” England bellowed, immediately silenced by Canada’s angry ‘Arthur!’ They fell silent and Russia wanted to tell Canada that no, he deserved to be yelled at, he should let England rage at him. He deserved it. It was his fault America was gone.

“Get the first aid kit. Alfred keeps it upstairs under the cabinet in the bathroom.” Canada turned his cool gaze at England, who was red faced and looked to be switching quickly between cursing them all out and snapping at Canada. He finally turned, storming away to get the kit. Russia glanced at Canada, who watched England’s back until he was out of sight and then turned to look back at Russia.

“Nice trick,” Russia murmured from between his fingers. His vision was still blurring, and his head throbbed. He scrubbed at his face, pulling away fingers tacky with drying blood.

Canada snorted, and gently took Russia’s wrist, looking at the small cuts from the glass that criss-crossed his skin as he rotated it in the light. He hummed, and released Russia’s arm. “Looks like you’ve got some bruising there.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Russia said.

“Oh?” Canada looked up when England came back down, the first aid kit and towels and a wet facecloth in hand. He handed them out silently to Canada and took his place against the wall, standing in the shadow of the fire. Canada put the items on the coffee table, sitting on it so he was directly across from him, and handed Russia a towel. “You’ve got glass in your hair,” he said to Russia’s questioning look.

Russia took the offered towel, rubbing his hair and watching bits of glass fall to the floor like falling stars. Canada took the wet washcloth, taking his bloody right hand and cleaned the brown dried blood away. “What happened?” he asked even and firmly.

“We should have gotten here earlier. I lost track of time,” Russia said and took the washcloth away from Canada to tend to his own wounds, ignoring the annoyed frown the other man gave him. “There was someone standing in the road and it was dark. America swerved to avoid hitting them and we crashed. He got out and went to check on them. He was gone when I got out of the car.” Russia stopped cleaning the blood away and fished in his pocket, pulling out America’s cracked cell phone. “His phone was left in the middle of the road.” He slid it onto the table next to Canada, staring at it almost in hope that it would suddenly ring and America would assure him that he was fine. “I searched for him and walked back here when I could not find him.”

“You couldn’t call us?” England asked.

“My phone was lost in the car,” Russia said, taking the gauze from Canada and wrapping his hand in it. Canada picked up America’s phone, tapping at the cracked screen uselessly.

“Touch screen’s broken. It’s useless,” Canada noted and put it back down with a clatter. “Here,” he said, pulling the washcloth from Russia’s hand and ignoring the growl of protest. “You can’t see your head, shut up.” Canada snapped, patience thin, and Russia sat silently to the other nation’s ministrations.

“How long ago was this?” England asked, eyes bright in the reflected fire.

“Two, three hours ago?” Russia said and winced as Canada pressed too hard against his temple, earning a soft apology. “I am not sure,” he admitted, the words bitter on his tongue.

England left the wall, stalking out of the room with determined strides. “I’m going to look for him,” he said, voice grave and daring anyone to speak against him.

Canada didn’t look away from his medical administrations. “Take a flashlight. Closet by the stairs.” They could hear the rummaging as England whirlwinded through the house, grabbing his coat and phone and flashlight from the front hall. He was out the door before either could say goodbye. Canada continued his care in silence, although sometimes Russia would catch a worried glance at either him or the door, biting at his lower lip when he thought Russia wasn’t looking. He finally put the washcloth away and bound the wounds, giving him pain medication before he left to put another log on the fire.

“You have a nasty head wound there,” Canada said, cutting the silence. “Normally I would say you shouldn’t go to sleep, but you look half dead already. You’re not slurring your words and I think it’ll help with the pain if you get an hour or two of rest in.”

“Alfred–“

“Alfred’s missing and we need to figure out how to find him. You can’t do anything right now. You’re a liability until your better,” Canada said harshly, arms crossed as he gazed at him from next to the fire. He softened his stance, placing a hand on the mantle and glancing at one of the oil portraits leaning against the wall. “I’ll wake you if there’s anything. Look, at least just rest down on the couch. You are hurt, Russia.” he said, seeing Russia about to argue with him.

Russia conceded, laying down along the cushions while ignoring the ache of his muscles, and stared up at the ceiling. He wouldn’t sleep until America was home. The fire crackled quietly and Canada moved to look out of the window and the night brushed landscape. His vision blurred, darkening as his limbs grew heavy and Russia could feel his eyelids turn to lead and Canada huffed, “You two are cut from the same cloth.”

“And what is that?” Russia asked, finding the words soft and cottony on the edge of consciousness.

“Stubborn assholes,” Canada muttered and Russia drifted into sleep.

****

***

He dreams of shadows and blood and fear as sickening as cold congealed blood dripping down his throat.

****

***

Time passed, and it was still dark when Russia awoke again. Alertness drummed in his veins, making the hours only hours prior feel like he had been walking around in a drunken stupor. Maybe that wasn’t too far from the truth. Head wounds were insidious.

Canada was slumped in an armchair, foot hanging off the arm and he held a deep navy mug in his hands. Russia watched in surprise as England entered the room, holding another mug in his left hand and reading a carton in his right.

“At least it’s salt, but I think sea salt would work best. Not this iodized shit he has.” Green eyes flickered up, meeting Russia’s gaze. “Hello from the land of the living,” he grumbled into his cup and took a long sip, taking a seat at a wooden chair nearest the fire.

Russia didn’t bother to ask if they had found America yet. Their eyes told him all he needed to know. “How long was I asleep?” He asked instead, sitting up and holding his head as he waits for the throbbing to recede.

“Three hours. It’s almost morning,” Canada said and looked out the window. True to his word there was a glimmer of change in the distance, the smallest whisper of daylight glazing the horizon. The light, where it had been soothing before, left him feeling cold and jagged, like broken sheets of ice along the riverbed.

“Do we know what took him?” Russia asks eventually, when the silence starts to saw at his nerves.

Canada looks to England, and the other nation peered into the fire for a moment before setting the salt on the ground and pulling a small black notebook from his jeans pocket. He pushed up the sleeves of his long gray sweater and for the first time, Russia noticed the weariness set in his face. He looked older. “It’s something old, I’ll give it that. It stenches of old magic.”

“You came across it?”

“Didn’t have to. I could smell it out in the garden and in your bedroom upstairs.” England wrinkled his nose at the thought.

“It was in the house?” Russia’s heart stopped. “I knew it was outside but–”

“I’m not sure. It was definitely at the window.” England watched him carefully, and he could see the tenseness set in his jaw. “You did write the sigil?”

“Yes, of course.” Russia rubbed his hand together, stopping when it grated over the tender wounds and instead took to furrowing his fingers through his hair. “I did not get to upstairs at the time through. But I did not think anything would happen. Halloween is today!”

Canada sat up taller in his chair. “I wouldn’t have thought anything could have happened either. What happened, Arthur?”

England looked at them both, and then stood up, leaving the mug on the floor next to the salt and paced over to the window. His green eyes were distant, lost in thoughts of the occult. “Maybe you should have used urine, it would have been stronger. Then again, menstrual blood has the strongest power, but we do seem to be in short supply of that.”

Canada’s face was scrunched up as if he were in the midst of deciding whether or not to properly show how disgusting that was. Russia beat him, speaking first.

“Urine or blood is not inconspicuous, and we were in agreement to hide this from America to protect him.”

“That’s really gross Arthur.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” England snapped, whirling away from the glass. “Magic is rather grotesque at times. It’s not the sexy glamour Hollywood puts it to be.”

The mood fell at the mention of Hollywood, and they all looked away. “So it is of old magic. Why is it after America?” Russia asked. A log popped loudly in the grate, sending embers to the floor of the hearth.

“I don’t know.” England muttered and crossed his arms. Canada got up, pulling a wire brush from next to the fire and swept the embers away. “But it’s not good.” England took a seat back in the chair, and flipped through the black booklet. “I need a map.”

“There’s an atlas in the rental car. I’ll get it,” Canada said and walked out of the room.

Russia watched the fire, as though searching for the answer of where America would be. He longer to have the other man back in his arms and whisper reassurances that everything was fine again. He had to get America back. He felt like he was coming undone.

“Svyato Mesto,” Russia murmured under his breath, a memory stirring.

“What?” England asked sharply.

There was a scream and both men shot out of their chairs. England took off down the hall, and Russia teetered, equilibrium off from his head injury, and staggered down the hall. Canada was swearing in the yard, and it looked like he was ripping off his socks, chucking them to the ground angrily. England was frowning at the steps, his fingers white around the doorframe. Russia walked up and peered down.

The stone steps were black with congealed blood, glimmering in the newborn light of morning. A skinless rabbit, its neck broken and twisted grotesquely, was turned to stare up at them with dead brown eyes. Traced along the pavement was the word MINE.

Russia’s stomach turned and he twisted away, closing his eyes from the nausea of his head pounding. England cursed softly once, and Russia blinked his eyes open, looking at the other man. His eyes were wide and he scanned the ground, looking horrified for a heartbeat before it quickly vaporized to purpling rage. Canada was barefoot in the frozen grass, staring down at the dead rabbit in a mixture of nausea and anger.

“Do you think it’s a message? Since Al’s always loved rabbits?”

 

“It would be too much of a coincidence otherwise,” England said fiercely. He stepped over the pool of blood and began to lean low along the surrounding ground, looking at the leaves and grass. Canada watched him for a moment before stalking away to the car, pulling out a large atlas book, and returned, handing it over to Russia.

“I’m going to clean this up. There’s a shovel in the shed.” Canada turned before Russia could say anything and he looked down at the maps, and turned his back on the dead rabbit. He sat down back in the living room, parsing through the pages.

England came in after a minute, sneezing once, and shut the door behind him. “Same creature, by the smell of it. It’s taunting us.”

“Do you think it means harm?”

England brushed off the damp knees of his jeans and turned to Russia, taking the atlas from his lap where it was splayed open. “Let’s take a look at this, shall we?” He flipped to a local map and then looked back up. “What did you say earlier?”

Russia started, looking at him in confusion. He had fallen back into deep thoughts. “A memory,” he finally said. “From very long ago.”

“What of?”

Russia turned in his seat uncomfortably. He had stopped using magic a long time ago. It was frowned upon these days. “Spots of power, where magic users would gather. They were used as circles for rituals and spirits and other things would be drawn there.”

“Right,” England said, this time moving to the floor and looking out at the map. He trailed a line along the town. “I’ve found him in a fairy circle once before when he was young. Whatever this is, it likes those spots.”

Russia blinked, feeling warm in his chest for the first time the whole night. “So if we can find the spots–”

“Well, no,” England said slowly, looking up as Canada came in through the kitchen door and began scrubbing at his hands. “I think I’ve found three already. There could be dozens, hundreds even.” He thumbed the page, lost in thought. “But it is a start.”

Canada came around, looking a the map in question. “It would take us all day at least. Maybe even longer.”

“We don’t have that time,” Russia growled.

“It’s a nasty fucker,” Canada said, drawing back and walking over to the couch.

“The old ones always are,” England muttered distractedly. He blinked and looked up, straight at Russia, then narrowed his eyes. “I thought you used to scry?”

“What?”

“Scry?” Russia asked. His cheeks reddened and said, “I have not done that since I was a boy.”

“Well, it’s a pretty useful skill to have right now since we have a missing person, don’t you think.”

“I have not used it in the time that Canada and America have been alive, their years combined. I am out of practice.” Russia thought of his old superstitions and magic. Things for children, he had told himself. Things for people who didn’t want to move forward. “I could do more harm than good.”

England waved his hand. “It’s scrying. You can’t mess up too badly.”

“You of all people should understand that anything with magic can go wrong,” Russia said angrily, and stood up, walking slowly over to the kitchen. He filled up a glass of water as Canada and England remained silent. Only the cackle of the fire kept up conversation.  
“Scrying?” Canada ventured, “Like seeing the future? How would that help?”

“It wouldn’t,” England said, his eyes still trained on Russia as he drank his water silently and stared out of the kitchen window. It was fully light by now, although everything was lost to gray mist. “Normally. Russia was a blood magic user back in the day. Pretty good at it too, if I remember right.” He turned away and looked at Canada. “He used to use blood scrying as a way to keep tabs on enemies. There were other things too, but I think that was his main use of blood magic.” England paused while Russia finished the water. “You stopped when you got the wrong blood and made a wrong call. A lot of people died.”

“It was dangerous and foolish,” Russia agreed. “And it is why I stopped using it.”

“Save for the occasion flare up of magic, here and there,” England said off handedly, although there was a snarl of fangs hidden under the words. “Ivan, this could be the best way to find Alfred. We can still bring him home safe. Isn’t that worth a chance?”

Russia gripped the edge of the sink and turned. “I need a knife and a bowl.”

England grinned.

****

***

Russia was in no way ready to do magic again. It always took a toll on the body, and after having not done it in hundreds of years, he was dreading the backlash. Still, if there was a chance to find America, he’d drain himself of blood to do it. His head still hurt and his neck felt as though it were filled with tightly packed cotton bedding. It throbbed and was stiff to move. Russia went to the basement, walking down the unpaved dirt floor with his supplies. He needed darkness and silence.

Luckily, the basement had both. And plenty of spiders as well. He sat, facing the corner of the darker part of the room where the light couldn’t slither through the cracks of the foundation wall. He placed a bowl filled with water down in front of his crossed legs, and lit a small candle.

Russia waited for the familiar pull of energy to coil through his body, feeling the electric embrace slowly. He had to do this right. He focused on America, on the feelings he had for him. How the light looked in his hair and how the blueness of his eyes made the summer sky pale in comparison. He thought about the warmth of his fingers when he rubbed Russia’s shoulder when he was upset. How his lashes were dark when he was crying. How his cheeks got red when he was angry. How strong he was. How gentle he could be, even when he was furious and loosing his temper. How he laughed at cat videos and how his eyes lit up when he saw new video games or action heroes.

Russia thought of how he looked, staring down a gun, looking to take freedom (for himself, for others, from others). What he looked like, lying naked in bed when the sun came up, or when shadows of moonlight skated over his chest. It took a while for all the memories to gather and swell, until there was nothing he could think of but America. Alfred. His friend and lover and so much more.

Then he sliced the back of his hand open and let blood drip into the bowl, and extinguished the light.

Amorphous images swirled, blood black ink dancing viscously in the darkness. He lost himself to the sights, and felt lightning crackle under his skin.

_His throat was sore from screaming and his fingers bloody from trying to claw his way out. But it was stone, and it was too heavy to lift. Decay, musty and oily clawed its way into his lungs with each breath and he had to tell himself that everything was okay. He was fine. He was alive and Russia was coming to get him._

_He tasted wet earth against his lips and stopped breathing when a snuffing sound grazed the edge of his hearing. Long fingers pushed the stone top away and he took a deep breath, blinking up into red eyes and fell asleep. More wet earth fell across his cheek as his vision swam. Blinking out and fading to black. He could hear a growl near his face._

It was like being shocked, as Russia was forced out of the vision. He must have let out a cry, because the basement lights turned on immediately and he heard his name called. Painful sparks danced across his skin and his fingers felt numb. Footsteps creaked quickly down the stairs. “Russia?”

“He’s in a coffin,” Russia squeezed out. His voice was ragged and it hurt to talk. 

“What?”

“A graveyard. Something with a stone tomb.” Canada helped him sit up and put a rag against his bleeding hand. Russia watched England’s face as he parsed through the new information.

“There are three cemeteries in town,” England said slowly.

“How convenient,” Canada muttered.

“We will have to split up,” Russia said, struggling to get out of Canada’s grasp and to get moving. His toes still had no feeling.

“No!”

“He’s right, Matthew. We don’t have enough time to go all together.”

Canada’s fingers gripped tightly at Russia’s collarbone and he pushed the other man’s hand away. “This is the set up of a horror movie,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” Russia said, getting up slowly and with England’s help. He gripped the railing tightly, walking upstairs and to the sunlight of early afternoon. “But I am not waiting here when I can be a step closer to America.”


	4. Monsters and Men

Canada ended up taking nearly all of the kitchen knives despite Russia and England reminding him that weapons wouldn’t do them any good. “I would take America’s guns, if he had them here,” he complained, looping a bright blue ceramic knife and its cover onto his belt. When England looked like he was going to complain to him again, Canada turned around, brow furrowed in anger. “Until you can prove whatever this is doesn’t bleed, I’m taking a weapon.”

“It is not bad to be prepared,” Russia said as England sighed, handing over Ziploc bags full of salt to each of them.

“This will do more damage,” England said, eyes darting around the kitchen, looking for more things to arm themselves. “If you have silver, that’d be best to wear.”

“I don’t know about silver, but I know there’s iron around here,” Canada muttered and pulled out a cast iron pan from a lower cabinet. He fished around a cutlery drawer and pulled out a spoon and pie server. “These are silver, at least.”

“Great,” England said eyeing the items. “You can make it a great omelet,”

“Fuck you,” Canada said and turned to Russia. “How’s your head? Do you need more pain killers?”

“No,” Russia murmured. Truth was his head was still throbbing and the vision in the side of his left eye was slightly blurred. He shook his head slowly, and Canada accepted that as his answer.

“Okay. You two take the phones.” Both Russia and England began to vehemently argue against that, and Canada frowned. “It makes sense! We only have two cell phones. You and Russia already know about this stuff and need to be able to inform the other if you find something. I’ll stick with the car.”

“And if you find the thing and America?” England asked, crossing his arms. Russia hid a smile at the overt parental body language.

Canada looked like he was stifling a sigh. “I grab him and shove him in the car. It’d be the same plan even if I had a phone on me.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Well to be fair, I don’t really like having to think of plans that center around poorly written Hollywood horror stories,” Canada said, tucking his hair behind his ear as he looked over the items on the counter. Russia looked away. The softness of the low light and the angle of his head made him look so much like America it hurt.

“We have enough flashlights?” Russia asked, stopping the building argument.

“Yeah. That’s good at least.” Canada handed out the flashlights, ranging between the small penlight he gave England and the long heavy metal flashlight Canada had. Russia himself had a bulky searchlight; bright yellow and heavy. He tested it, tapping his thumb against the rubber button on top and watched the bright beam of light fill the kitchen. Satisfied, Russia returned his attention to England’s muttering and pacing.

“None of this is ideal, and for us to be going up against something we know nothing about, beyond that it’s of old magic, well,” England paused looking up at Russia and then Canada. “Matthew, you take the iron and silver as well– do not argue with me,” England snapped and turned to Russia. “I think the two of us have a better fighting chance. Take the other piece of silver; you’re far more out of practice that I am. I can turn it into a ward for each of you.” He took the silver spoon and pie server, rotating them between his fingers. “You’re sure there is no other silver in the house?”

Matthew shook his head, leaning against the kitchen sink. “No. He doesn’t use this place much. The only other stuff he has is pewter, and I don’t think that counts, right?”  
England shook his head and focused on the silver and pulled a chalk pencil from his back pocket, drawing a circle on the countertop and began to inscribe it with words and symbols. Canada watched him warily, and Russia beckoned Canada further into the house, smelling coppery ozone and recognizing the building of magic in the room. Energy prickled under his skin, the leftover from the ritual earlier dancing in tune with England. He scratched around the cut on his hand, now bound with gauze.

“We’re going to get him back,” Canada said without turning to him, keeping his eyes on England. Russia turned and eyed him. He had been about to reassure him.

“Yes,” Russia agreed. An ever present New England crow called out from outside, it’s cry muffled by the walls. The house was silent beyond the soft scratching of the chalk and quick interjection of a word by England. Russia crossed his arms. He didn’t sit down, although Canada moved to the doorframe to lean against it while he waited for England to finish up. He was afraid is he rested he wouldn’t get back up. The scrying had taken a lot out of him. More than he wanted to admit. But it didn’t matter because in a few hours they would have America back. He refused to believe in anything else.

England walked out of the kitchen, handing them the silver items and Canada the cast iron pan. There was a strange sigil carved into the center of each item, and the pie server Russia was given was warm to the touch. It felt like it was vibrating or humming with energy. Canada tested the pan in his hand, looking at the extra chalk markings on the bottom. “Are we all set?” he asked while swinging it.

Taking a step back with a frown, avoiding the pan by only a few inches, he shook his head. “One last thing, just as a precaution. I need a Sharpie.”

Russia walked over to the desk in the living room, pulling a small cup of pencils over and finally plucked a black Sharpie pen out. He handed it wordlessly to England who uncapped it with his teeth and began to draw over the back of his left hand. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Protection from possession. I don’t think it’s a demon, but I don’t think we need to stack the odds against us any more than they already are.”

“Yeah, good thinking,” Canada agreed, although his face had fallen at the mention of a demon. He held out his hand when England was done and moved towards them. “Does it really work?” He asked, looking to Russia.

Russia shrugged his shoulder and England sputtered, “I hardly think it matters, we are going after some ethereal being that snatched America right from under our noses.”

England checked his handiwork before moving on to Russia and looked at his hands. Both had bandages on them. “Where should I put it?” he asked.

Russia glanced down to his hands and then eyed the sigil on England’s hand. He took the pen out of his fingers and moved to the bathroom. “I will do it,” he murmured. He shut the door before England could yell at him and smirked for a moment as a curse aimed at him slithered from under the door. He unwound his scarf and unbuttoned his shirt, pushing the fabric aside and drew the sigil carefully across his chest, over his heart.

He capped the pen once he was done, checking the lines carefully and tracing them with cold fingers. He blinked, seeing his pale reflections. Cuts quested over his face, a casualty caused by the meteor shower of glass from the crash. His eyes were dark with lack of sleep and lips set into a grim line. He adjusted his scarf back on and flipped off the lights, stepping out of the dark bathroom.

“Here,” Russia said and handed back the pen, buttoning his shirt back up, “We are ready now.”

“Alright,” England said and nodded. Canada grabbed the car keys from the counter and they all piled into the rental car, pausing only to make sure all the doors were locked in the before pulling out of the driveway and barreled down the mountain side.

Russia kept his fingers latched on tight to the door handle as Canada took a sharp turn, changing the gear of the car, and streaked up the mountain after a few minutes of their furious descent towards the valley.

“I do think it’s a good idea if we arrive there alive,” England snapped after a particularly sharp turn.

“Do you want us all to get there before dark or not?” Canada grit back, his fingers tight around the steering wheel.

“If we’re dead, it does America no good.”

“We’d be revived anyway,” Canada muttered under his breath, setting England off onto a tirade on how reviving was one: nasty and exhausting business, and two: time lost. Canada looked like he was ready to snipe back about how he clearly hadn’t meant it seriously when they arrived at the first graveyard. They fell silent at the sight of the black wrought iron gates. “I’ll go.” England said and unbuckled. “This is the largest one. It’ll take the longest to go over.”

“Be careful,” Canada said, watching him exit the car. England nodded, glanced at Russia with a measured look, and shut the door quickly. Canada waited until he slipped between the gates and took off down the road.

“You do drive fast,” Russia commented, stomach swooping as they hurdled down the hill. “Worse than America.”

Canada let out a single burst of laughter, eyes trained on the quickly dimming roads. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He thinks he’s the better driver.” Better being subjective, Russia supposed, and Canada continued to talk. “We used to race each other, but I think he got pissed off at me winning too often.”

“He doesn’t like to loose,” Russia agreed.

“Nope. Looks like we’re here.” Russia looked out the window as they slowed down. The cemetery was older, surrounded by woods and cresting a hill. A stone wall edged the cemetery grounds, connected by an iron gate.

“Not ominous at all,” Russia said as he climbed out of the car.

“Yeah, not like it’s filled with dead people,” Canada said and gave him a thin smile. He shut the door and walked into the cemetery, watching Canada take off down the road. Russia tugged on his scarf, pulling it closer to his face to ward off the cold October air. He wondered how long it would take Canada to notice that he had slipped his cell phone into the passenger seat. He was going to need it more than him, he guessed.

It was silent as he walked into the graves. The sweet cloying scent of decaying leaves filled the air, dancing along the air as wind tugged at his clothing. Died grass rattled along the edge of the pass, a warning like a rattlesnake. He glanced around, slowly making his way through the old headstones that jut up from the damp earth like broken pearly teeth. Most of the names had been eroded away, but the dates at the bottom could still bee seen. He wrapped around low crouching willow trees and the thick foliage of a Cyprus tree. There was nothing like what he had seen in the vision and his chest tightened painfully.

Walking to the northern edge of the cemetery, Russia glanced up. Pink and red flooded the world, leaving the cloudless sky in bloody tatters. The blue lips of night were pressed to the horizon, breathing life into the first stars of the night. He turned on the flashlight, making sure it still worked. In the distance there was a grave with the statue of an angel, it’s eyes downcast and covered by a hand as it stood in anguish. Russia traced its form with his eyes, and glanced to the direction it was looking at, stepping forwards and around the edge of a grove of juniper bushes, staring at a stone tomb.

He jumped forward, hands colliding with the stone hard as he recognized the shape. “Alfred!” he tried, fingers scrabbling along the edge of the tomb before he realized the top was already ajar. He clicked on the light, pointing the downspout of light into the darkened grave and peered inside. It was empty.

Russia stepped back, staring at the grave. Anger bubbled in his chest, and his throat tightened. He was too late. He shined the light along the grass, looking at the ground for clues, hoping that there would be some sign that America was all right and safe, or where he had been taken.

There was a small path that led to the edge of the woods. Of course it did, he could almost hear Canada say. Russia made sure the light was still on and steadily made his way into the woods. He stopped at the edge, making sure the bag of salt was open in his pocket and the warded pie server ready in the other. The sigil on his chest felt warm, but he knew that was only his imagination. Russia glanced back at the cheery light of the houses across the cemetery, and stepped into the veiled darkness of the forest.

The carcasses of leaves crunched loudly underfoot, or at least it seemed that way in the unnatural silence of the woods. He threaded through the trees, over aware of how the noise of the world around him had seemingly been muted. There were no chipper birdcalls, drone of nearby cars, or the whisper of the wind. It was like everything had been erased. His skin prickled in unease. Foolishly, Russia wished he hadn’t left the phone with Canada.

He kept on the path, letting his instincts guide him more than his thoughts. His rational thoughts would have sent him straight out of the forest, keenly aware of just how quickly night was gathering around him. He stopped, noticing his breath ghosting in the air, and found his light gleaming against a dark pool of water in a clearing only a short distance away. He stepped towards it, keeping the flashlight trained on the still glasslike surface, and stepped around the edge, staring at it. Drops of rain hit his arm and face and Ivan rubbed it away, watching the water with growing unease. It was a perfect circle. Water never gathered naturally in a perfect circle.

Another drop of rain hit his cheek as he studied the still water and then skirted away, brain frizzing into realization. The water was still and there were no clouds. It wasn’t raining. He turned his flashlight up, staring into dark arms of the trees. The light caught the curled edge of fingers, crimson dripping down slowly.

Russia swung the flashlight over, breath knocked out of him, and he nearly dropped it. “Alfred!” he whispered, scrambling over to the wide base of the tree America was nestled in. There was no answer and he placed the flashlight down on the ground, gripping the limbs of the tree as he hoisted himself up. The moonlight was enough to light his way as he scrabbled for purchase along the rough boughs, stopping when he was only a finger touch away from America, unnaturally still where his body was tucked in the arms of the tree limbs.

Russia hesitated, fingers curled in the air before he latched on, shaking him gently. “America!” he hissed, louder. America made no sound, head lolling with the forced movement. Russia’s eyes trailed down along his dimly illuminated form, latching onto the river of night blackened blood glistening down his arm. He gripped onto America’s shirt. “Wake up. Please,” Russia said, louder this time.

When America didn’t move, still as death save the Mississippi bloodstream flowing down his arm, Russia pressed further into the tree, catching his foot around one of the boughs below and began to pull America into his arms. His fingers grazed his bare neck, languid and lolling with Russia’s tugs. His skin was cool and damp like freshly dug earth. Like a new grave, he thought grimly.

A scream came from afar. Deep and throaty: a hot-blooded predator lurking nearby. Russia did not stop to look around the dark trees and chose to focus only on getting America from the tree, where he had been tucked away like the half mangled kill of a wild cat. He had his arms wrapped tightly around the other man, fingers wormed under his shirt while searching for a pulse when the scream came again. It was closer. Louder. The hair stood up on the back of his neck.

The light flickered below and Russia stopped, silencing his movements. Something had stepped through the beam of the flashlight. Russia held his breath, peering down at the dark forest floor. Something grabbed his pant leg, ripping him down, and America with him. They tumbled, Russia scrabbling to a tree branch but wasn’t quick enough. He landed, hard, with America’s crumpled form on top of his legs. The wind was knocked out of him when his back hit the floor. He gasped, rolling to his side as he tried to sit up.

Hands, pitted as though teethed on by rats and wet and hot like a skinned animal, wrapped tightly around his throat, dragging him away from America and crushing his air. He kicked but hit nothing but air. His lungs were burning as he struggled for air, thrashing away from whatever was still dragging him through the leaves and dirt. He tried to pry the fingers away, but they were like iron, and tacky as though coated with drying blood. Nails gouged him, piercing the thin skin of neck and he would have cried out if he had the air. Instead he reached back, finding clumped hair and ripped and pulled. He was let go with a scream in his ear, deafening him and leaving only the ripples of his shuddering heartbeat behind. He gasped. Hard. He curled up on the ground and tasted bile.

He was pinned back to the ground, staring up into burning red eyes as putrid breath ghosted his face, spittle landing on his cheek as his attacker screeched at him in rage. Russia squirmed, taking a handful of salt and sprayed it into the thing’s face, shutting his eyes to stop any salt from falling back into his own eyes. It let go and Russia twisted away, pulling the pie server out and thrusting up as the attacker descended on him.

It threaded between the creature’s ribs with a sickening thud as he struck bone. It screamed again, but it did not seem to weaken it. The thing pulled the silver from its’ chest, casting it to the ground in a blur and burying it to the handle into the ground near America’s still body. It lifted Russia up off the ground, throwing him against the wide trunk of an oak tree. Russia listed to the right, slumping to the ground as his vision swam and he tried to catch his breath. The creature, leathery like a bat and gaunt like a rabid fox, seemed to be in a stasis of decay. What little moonlight sifted though the forest gleamed oily against blackened and gangrenous limbs. Gnarled fingers grabbed at him, dragging him once more along the forest floor.

A jagged rock cut into his back and Russia cried out, trailing off with a surprised gasp as he was lifted high into the air with unnatural strength and sent plunging down into the freezing black pool of water. Where the cold should have normally only prickled harmlessly at his skin, it felt like he was on fire. He struggled to get back to the surface, bubbling up into the cold air, until the thing shoved him back down with a thunderous growl. There was nowhere for Russia to push off the ground, or to get away from bruising hands that forced him down under the water, below the lip of life giving air.

His lungs burned and he could feel his eyes growing hot with the dimming of his vision, when the hands lifted. He shot up, gulping the air. A blur of silver arced through the air and the thing screamed. Russia swam to the edge of the pond, gasping for air before clawing his way out. A dark shadow shot past him and there was a splash as the creature went down. Russia stared at the center of the pond, watching the thing fight as its’ bubbled lips slipped to the surface, shoved below the dark water by furious hands. America had awoken.

Russia rolled to his side, sitting up halfway and propped up on one arm as he watched, water dripping into his eyes. America had launched himself at the creature, forcing it under the water. The muscles in his arm strained in the effort, shaking in the dim light. A gnarled hand leapt up, snatching America by his shirt and they both plunged into the darkness.

“Alfred!” Russia croaked in a shouted whisper, throat still burning from bruising and lack of air. Water sloshed as they came back up, America gasping for air raggedly as he was interlocked with the thing, fingers sprawled out across its’ face and stopping the thing from closing the space between them, sharp teeth bright as it howled and forced America back, back pressed against the muddy embankment. Russia’s eyes caught a gleam of silver and he dove for the warded silver pie server that had been lost in the scuffle. Grabbed it and stabbed the thing in the back, falling backwards when the creature swung it’s arm out and hit him. America took the silver, and pierced the thing through the neck with a grunt. It scrabbled at its’ neck, gasping and falling below the water’s surface. America didn’t bother to watch, instead he grabbed Russia– hauling him onto his feet dizzyingly– and ran.

They left the flashlight behind, and America twisted after minute, eyes wide. “Where are we going?”

“Left,” Russia croaked and America’s hand tightened around his own. Their tether of knotted fingers the only thing stopping them from separating in the darkness. His heart thudded against his chest painfully. The forest stayed silent. America twisted back, blue eyes dark in the dim moonlight. “It’s coming,” he whispered. Horror clung to the back of Russia’s throat and he gagged on the words, ‘how can you know?’ but before he could ask a shrill scream flooded the quiet night forest. “ Go, _go, **GO**_!” America hissed, shoving Russia forward when they had stopped, only to catch their breath for a sweet precious second. Sticks broke in the distance as they scrambled.

They pierced the edge of the forest, careening into the open grounds of the cemetery so fast America was unable to stop in time from slamming into a gravestone, bracing his hands against it before he turned and looked back at Russia with wild eyes. There was a red sheen to them. He took a step back.

“Ivan?” America asked quietly.

“Alfred! Ivan!” England’s voice carried over the dark grounds. A beam of light swung until it pinned them in its buttery warmth.

“Arthur!” America called, voice trailing into a stifled sob. Russia took America’s arm and pulled him close, leading them into the cemetery. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing nothing but the vague silhouettes of trees.

“We must get out of here,” Russia called out, seeing England’s frame standing near the angel statue he had seen earlier.

“Matthew’s in the car. We have to get out of here. Now.”

“No arguments,” America said. He listed to the side, placing a shaking hand on one of the gravestones. Russia could see the path of blood down his arm again. He grabbed his good arm, pulling him close and supporting him as they rushed their way out of the cemetery.

“Get in the car,” England yelled as a scream came from behind them. The wind picked up, speeding leaves into their path and vision.

Russia pulled the car door open, stuffing into the back of the van in a tangle of limbs as he ushered in America. England plowed into the passenger side, the door still open as he yelled, “Get us the hell out of here!”

The van doors closed and Canada peeled out. Russia let them focus on getting away, and looked down at America who was currently pinned under him on the back seat.

“Hey good lookin’” America whispered. Russia placed his hand along America’s cold cheek, somewhere stuck between laughing and crying.

“Your arm,” Russia said, pulling away.

“Yeah,” America said, not taking his eyes off of Russia. They untangled a bit, sitting up as Canada took a hard right turn. He looped his arm around Russia’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It was slow, drowning in touch and being close. They parted, only because Russia still was having troubles with breathing. “You look like hell,” America said and leaned forward, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Russia’s chest as he slipped into unconsciousness once more. Russia held him tightly, feeling the muscles in his back go slack and turned his gaze resolutely to the road.

****

***

Canada parked as close as he could to the front door as the wind battered the trees around them. Houses were dark, the hour of trick or treating long since over and the promise of frost was gathering slowly along each blade of grass. Together, he and Russia got America into the house as England stayed outside, fortifying the grounds. Russia laid America down on the couch, keeping his attention on the quiet man as Canada moved further away into the house. He carded his fingers through America’s hair, studying the cut on his arm, a matte mess of red as most of the blood had begun to dry. Canada returned with a first aid kit, sitting on the floor where America’s arm hung loosely.

“Don’t think I haven't noticed the bruising around your upper neck or the new cuts you got,” Canada said softly, his pale eyes never leaving his brother’s skin.”Oh, and what the fuck on leaving the phone! I mean, yeah, that’s why we got there so quick, but still! And relax against the couch, your neck is probably going to start hurting if it doesn’t already. ”

Russia gave what he hoped sounded more like a tired laugh than the exhausted groan he thought it was. “Of course,” he said quietly. He kept his fingers on America, not caring that the display of affection was clear for others to see. With the adrenalin gone and being safe in the house, exhaustion to the point of nausea set in. Russia leaned against the leg of the couch, resting his head along the bottom cushion.

He had fallen asleep, he realized, when the front door shut firmly and he jolted awake. England walked in, looking at the darkened windows cautiously. A dog barked in the distance. “I’ll start a fire,” England said, and put himself to work. Russia blearily looked over to America, who was still asleep. His arm was bandaged and the blood cleaned away. Russia watched his chest rise and fall slowly, only looking up when Canada stood in front of him, clearing his throat to gently pull him out of his thoughts.

“Here,” Canada muttered as he held out a blue speckled mug.

“What is it?” Russia asked, taking the hot drink and peering down at the warm brown liquid.

“Cider and brandy,” Canada said. He sat down in the opposite armchair, watching England return with kindle and firewood.

Russia took a sip, relishing the heat and spices and the long burn of the brandy that settled in his belly. “Thank you,” he said.

Canada shrugged and watched the firewood being stacked, frowning at England’s back.

“It won’t light like that.”

“Yes it will,” England snapped as he lit the kindle with a match.

“No, it won’t” Canada said under his breath, taking a sip of the cider when England turned and frowned at him. They watched the kindle catch, bursting into brilliant white and orange licks of flame before immediately being swallowed by blue and clinging desperately to the paper. White smoke burped upwards. “You smothered it,” Canada said, putting the drink down and moving to the fire to fix it.

England grumbled, eyeing the fire nastily before holding his hand over it and muttering. The fire roared to life.

“Cheater,” Canada said, although there was little bite to it.

England looked unbearably smug, his lips curled upwards until wind howled outside, shuddering the glass in the windows. They all glanced at it uneasily. “Ignore it. It’s not getting in now.”

“That wasn’t the wind then?” Canada asked. When England shook his head no, Canada took a long draught of the drink.

“It’s still trying to come after America?” Russia asked, fingers curled snugly around the sleeping man’s wrist.

“Until the sun burns it away,” England said tartly, folding his arms. “Then we will be safe again.”

“Until next year,” Russia said grimly.

A hush fell over the room, only burned away by the crackle and pop of the damp wood in the grate. 

“It slit his arm, straight down the forearm,” Canada said.

“He was hanging in a tree when I found him,” Russia added.

“It was trying to drain him of blood,” England said casually. He was looking at America’s wrapped up arm as though it could give him answers. He moved away, turning to the windows before closing the curtains and shutting out the dark.

“Why?” Canada said, tapping the lip of the mug with his thumb.

“I don’t know,” England admitted. He blinked and turned to the fire, hands clasped behind him. “I’m not even sure what it is, really. Other than that it’s old. It might have been trying to drain him of his life, force him to the spirit world. There are plenty of reasons why.”

“But it has been coming after him further out from Halloween. Wouldn’t that mean it’s getting more powerful?”

“Or more desperate.” England paused and muttered, “We should just tattoo the sigil into his arm after all this trouble.”

“No tattoos,” America said weakly.

Russia’s fingers stopped trailing along America’s skin as they all looked at him. America’s eyes blinked open and he turned, hair rasping quietly against the couch pillows.

Canada was looking down at America, face soft in relief, although he clinked out a steady rhythm with his nail against the porcelain. America turned and looked at Russia, and he swallowed tightly, tasting copper on his tongue. “How do you feel?”

America blinked, still looking like he was caught up in sleep. He glanced at the windows when the wind howled again. Russia’s gripped his shirt tightly.

“I dunno,” America said with a slow shrug. “It was like I was in a trance. I remember the car crash and after that it’s all fuzzy until I woke up lying on the ground. Unable to move, even when it tried to make me drink its’ blood. Gross.”  
“What?” England yelled. Canada was pale and Russia turned so he was facing America fully.

“Is that bad?” he asked for America.

“It depends,” England said.

“On what?” America yawned. He seemed utterly unperturbed by the events tonight. Russia stared at him. Either he was in shock or…

“You’ve known about this,” he said.

“Hm?” America asked sleepily.

“You knew something was after you.”

“I don’t know if I would say that,” America muttered, turning so he could lie more comfortably on the cushions and still look at Russia. “I’ve always felt like something was out there and then I find these little marks all over the house.” America yawned again. “So I guess it’s not unbelievable?” He shut his eyes again, but hummed gently to let them know he was still awake.

“You noticed all that? Our sigils?” England sputtered. “Why didn’t you ever say something?”

“Our sigils? You were drawing all that stuff?” America frowned. “They’re really annoying to wash off.”  
“Don’t wash them off,” England and Russia said at the same time.

America looked confused, but held up his hand in peace. “Fine, fine. I won’t wash off the little scribbles. And next time swamp monster jr. decides to kill me I’ll bring it up,” America said, opening one brilliant blue eye to glare at England when he opened his mouth. England huffed and America turned to Russia, struggling to sit up. “I wanna go to bed,” he said when Russia held him down.

“No one is leaving the living room until sunrise.” Canada said and America flopped back down. “I always think you’re not paying attention, but then you do.”

“Nah, you guys are just shit at keeping secrets. Keep your illuminati bullshit away please and thank you.” America chuckled. Canada looked like he wanted to swat him.

They fell into comfortable silence, listening to the wind howl outside. America would stop mid conversation, looking out at the drawn windows with a blank look. Russia would squeeze his hand, waiting for his blue eyes to focus on him once more. The flame flickered in the grate a few times but stayed hot. America complained about wanting to go to bed again until he fell asleep once more, his fingers fisted into the loose fabric of Russia’s shirt.

“Why the blood drinking?” Russia asked, turning to England.

“Possibly to help drag his soul to the spirit realm?” England looked unnerved. “I would imagine it’s for fuel consumption and not eternal damnation.”

“Fuel?”

“I wouldn’t think much of it. I don’t have many answers right now.”

They fell into silence again, and it seemed that morning broke faster than anyone could have hoped. Canada stood, leaving his empty mug on the floor despite the ire in England’s gaze. “I’m going to sleep.” He looked to Russia. “Do you need help getting him up?”

“I can walk,” America mumbled sleepily, sitting up slowly and swinging his legs over the edge of the couch. “What about you? How’s your throat?”

“I am fine America,” he said and helped America off the couch. America grumbled at that, which made Russia smile. England stayed downstairs on the couch to rest, claiming to keep an eye on the fire. When they got upstairs the office door was closed at the end of the hall. Russia assumed that’s where Canada had gone to sleep, as there was a futon in there.

When they stumbled into the bedroom it was like stepping back into a book left unattended. Their luggage was still strewed around and the bed messily made. It didn’t feel like everything was over and yet, here it was. Their normal morning. “I’m sleeping for ten days,” America groaned and pulled off his shirt. He was still covered in dirt and debris. Russia followed suit, and slid under the pile of blankets while America flopped onto the mattress.

The musk of cedar still clung to the flannel sheets and Russia pulled them tightly to him, smiling when America made a small noise of complaint and moved in until they were touching and threaded in each other’s arms and legs. He listened to America’s slow breath, looking at the cool morning light slipping in through the glass and landing against his scratched cheek. “You didn’t say something down there,” Russia said finally, when he was almost unsure if America was even still awake.

“What?” America turned so they were facing each other, nearly nose to nose. He shuffled back to look at Russia’s face, fingers held out hesitantly and then tracing the bruising blooming along his skin. “What makes you say that?”

“I know you,” Russia said, not moving away from the gentle touches. How could he not know him? He’d been laid out bare and raw in front of him so many times, had seen the same from America. Vulnerability had slowly been clawed out, scooped away with quiet words at 3am and longing phone calls in the morning. How could he not know?

America hummed and took his fingers away. “I did drink some of the blood. I didn’t want to freak England out.”

Russia narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“It wasn’t my choice!”

“No, that is not–" Russia stopped, holding America’s shoulder and rubbing soft circles into his skin. “Why would you not tell us?”  
America closed his eyes, pressing his face closer into the cool pillows and murmured, “I told you I was in a trance, right? Okay, so that’s not a hundred percent true. I was bound and before I could break away, it cut my arm open, and cut it’s own hand and forced it against my mouth. It stopped my air until I opened my mouth and well–" America shuddered and Russia looped his fingers around America, holding him tightly. “And then I was in agony. I couldn’t move and it felt like every atom was being torn apart and set on fire. That’s why I couldn’t move. It put me up in the tree to, uh, drain me of my blood? I think?” America shifted down in the bed, getting into a more comfortable position. “I swear I thought I was dying. But then I saw it go after you and it just stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“It just– yeah. I…” America closed his eyes. “I couldn’t see you hurt. That hurt worse. And then I saw the pie server, and I just kinda lost it.” America looked a bit sheepish as he returned his gaze to Russia’s eyes.

Russia moved forward, capturing America’s lips in a long kiss that left his throat burning. America held on tightly to Russia’s arm, smiling when they parted. “I love you, but I need to sleep now. For real. We’re gonna talk all about this later.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up.” Russia said.

“I know,” America sighed and shut his eyes.


End file.
